


Wherein Bones ain't playin' 'bout his grits

by kayliemalinza



Series: Rambleverse [19]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Academy Years (Rambleverse Timeline), Gen, Kayliemalinza's Rambleverse, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:39:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bones wants one thing after an overnight shift at the clinic, and you'd better not get in his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wherein Bones ain't playin' 'bout his grits

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Wherein Bones is exhausted and Jim is a sneaker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/504565) by [kayliemalinza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza). 



> Do you remember when I said that [ramble!fic wherein Jim is a sneaker](http://archiveofourown.org/works/504565) was originally supposed to be about grits?
> 
> OK, so here's the grits part. Technically you can consider this a sequel-- it takes place after Jim's gotten Bones through the door-- but in terms of impressionism, this is the same emotion or moment of sensation expressed in a slightly different situation. I personally think the first version I posted is more successful in that respect, but this version has grits.
> 
> Really, if you feel the need to fit this into ramble!verse chronology, let's say it takes place on some other, near-identical Wednesday morning.

Jim makes sure that Bones is settled in the chair before he starts rooting around the kitchenette. There may be food here in danger of going uneaten, and nobody wants that. It would be tragic.

Bones finally regains enough general awareness to grunt at Jim and gesture at a thermos on the counter, one of the rugged camping-rated kind meant to keep food hot for days. When Jim hands it over, Bones unscrews the lid with a deep groan reminiscent of a junkie getting a fix.

"Fork," he says, and though his voice is still gravelly it sounds warmer, somehow. Happy.

Jim grabs a fork from the drawer and hands it over, asking, "What the hell is that?" He peers into the thermos at a sort of granulated goop, white with pools of yellow oil swirling around the edge.

"S'grits," Bones grunts. "With butter."

"I repeat my earlier question," Jim says. "What is that stuff even made of?"

"It's corn, Jim! Ground up corn!" Bones' eyes are really getting out of control, here. Either they're bulging out of the socket or his eyelids are retreating out of fear. He hasn't looked this offended since Jim offered him a Pepsi. "And while you're being sassy, riddle me this, Yankee boy! What's oatmeal made out of?"

Jim is very sad when his friend gets into this state. He's highly amused, of course, but also sad. "Bones," he says kindly. "Oatmeal is made out of _oats_."

It looks quite possible that Bones is going to cry and Jim really can't have that. He just can't handle it, alright, so he's going to change the subject. "Can I have some of your—" he pauses, trying to decide if he should try to torture the word into being two syllables the way Bones does, or just acknowledge that his Iowan-bred palate isn't cut out for that kind of thing. "That stuff," he says finally.

"No, goddammit," Bones says. "My mama sent me these grits."

"Your mom sent you a thermos of grits?" Jim asks, barely stopping himself from laughing.

" _Yeah_ , my mama sent me a thermos of grits," Bones snaps, which is impressive, because he is also slurring the hell out of each word. "You wanna make something of it? I'll whip you, no lie."

"Are you about to fight me over _grits?_ " Jim asks. Not that he doesn't like his chances of winning, but still. Some principles are stupider than others.

Bones seems to realize that he's hovering near the deep end and hides his belligerent chin in the wrinkled collar of his jacket. "You ain't the only sumbitch who misses home, Jim," he mutters. He sticks his nose back into the steaming container and closes his weary, tortoise-like eyes.

Jim leaves off his search for food and pulls up a chair as quietly as he can. He watches carefully. Soon enough, Bones twitches, and it's a little like watching a PADD flicker and summarily dump its active queue. Jim hasn't found Bones' reset/recover button so he just smiles and rubs his knuckles against Bones' stubbly cheek. Jim would never get away with doing that if Bones were legitimately awake, even though Joanna gets to do it whenever she wants, so Jim has to take advantage when the opportunity presents itself. See, Bones' facial hair isn't like other people's. It has magical powers (Joanna agrees.)

Bones must really be out of it because he doesn't growl or jerk away from Jim. He tilts his face into Jim's hand, even, probably to facilitate the transfer of chi or whatever that tingly sensation is.

Grits or no grits, Jim's going to be lucky all week.


End file.
